So, here's how it goes: when you are invited to a party, and an R.S.V.P. is requested so that the hosts may plan how much to shell out for cheese and booze, you should R.S.V. fucking P. Seriously, how hard is it to hit the Reply button of your favorite email program and say "I can't make it, thanks," anyway?

And then, if you are one of the (I'm gathering from recent experience) 08% of the population who will bother taking 9 seconds out of their day to respond to an invitation, STICK TO YOUR FREAKING GUNS. Otherwise, the superfluous cheese that was bought for your sorry ass will probably be thrown away some cold, February afternoon hence when the funny smell is pinpointed to that paper bag in the back of the fridge.

Yesterday, I had an audition. Wore my contacts, which only get put in for important auditions and performances. Haven't worn them since the Big Midwest Theatre Gig. The lenses are in all day, and I kind of forgot about them. Sitting home laptop sur la lap, right eye starts twitching, asking "Would you please GET THIS THING OFF ME?"

A couple of hours later I notice there's a slight halo around the lighting fixtures in the apartment. interesting.

A few hours after that, my right eye hurts like all get out.

A few hours after that, BG suggests I flush out my eye with some water, which instantly makes me want to die.

This morning, eye still hurts, but not tooooo bad. Head to work. Work proves unbearable (more than usual) and I leave early. I head to the Eye and Ear Infirmary, and am seen within an hour.

I have "Contact Lens Fatigue." The doctor tells me that wearing a contact lens is like putting a piece of Saran Wrap over a child's face. Sometimes, an eye just freaks the fuck out. And that's what's going on here. Freaking. He also wanted to know about the free actor's clinic I usually go to, because he thought he might meet some actresses with yeast infections. So, he's a pig, but my eye feels like I rubbed it with an S.O.S. pad, looks like conjunctivitis, works like I'm trying to pass an eye test through a piece of letterhead, and NOTHING HELPS BUT TIME AND ANTIBIOTICS. I kind of want to die. Instead, I'm gonna drink scotch until I don't give a shit how much I hurt.

BG and I were looking at an apartment to buy. it was a little dark, but Ray Charles did used to live in it until very recently. When I asked what the trap door in the floor was for, we discovered a second, apparently abandoned apartment underneath that we really assumed was included with the one above. There were giant shoes near the bed, and dozens of Calphalon pots piled in the sink. This apartment also had a balcony overlooking the beach and ocean; very convenient for a New York City pad.

I've been feeling a bit funky the last few days, as many of my friends have. But, I think I've come to a realization, and I have Karl Rove to thank: Niceness blows.

Not only will my ends justify me means from now on, but my means will only be mean. If I want something, there shouldn't be any worries about such twentieth century concepts of "decent" or "underhanded." No, Herr Rove has shown the way. Strength through brutal tactics.